


Décalage

by CountessMillarca



Category: Bleach
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Drabble Sequence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Rukia-centric, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2017-12-26 22:25:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 11,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountessMillarca/pseuds/CountessMillarca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time never heals, and bleeding wounds never close unless the one who inflicts them has mercy on his victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Victim of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach. All rights belong to Kubo Tite.

Time—such a chimerical concept. Fragile. Bendable. When did she stop trying to piece together the whimsical fragments that made _time_? The day she was accepted into the Kuchiki family—became _Kuchiki_ Rukia—and was _Rukia_ nevermore? The day Kaien-dono died in her arms and she tasted unknown despair? The day she killed him once more and gorged herself on the known despair? The day she could no longer see her reflection in Ichigo’s eyes and felt envy at his gift? Rukia would give anything to not be the one who remained. If only time would _stop_ —if only…just once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 100


	2. Enough Is Enough

“Have you grown taller, Ichigo?” Rukia forgets herself and asks aloud, but then she remembers that it doesn’t matter if she speaks or not—he cannot hear her either way. Walking side by side on his way to school every morning gives her a much needed sense of familiarity. Even if Ichigo cannot see her or talk to her or touch her. She brings out her sketchbook and draws the daily little moments that make Ichigo’s life so very human—going to school, studying, hanging out with friends, eating dinner with family. Before she knows it, she has grown accustomed to this routine without her conscious approval.

She knows she must stop; she can see it in Inoue’s saddened gaze, Ishida’s averted stare, Sado’s downcast expression. They all see her but never acknowledge her presence. Rukia understands they are merely trying to protect Ichigo, and she feels thankful to them. But she can never halt the sting of rejection piercing through her heart whenever she happens to catch a glimpse of concealed pity in their eyes.

“Enough—I need to stop.” Rukia repeats this mantra to herself each and every night as she watches Ichigo’s sleeping profile, yet every morning she relents and follows after him, uncaring of the repercussions.

“Enough—you need to stop.” The same words…but not the same voice. This utterance is low. Heavy. Masculine. It is Renji’s voice that finally succeeds in breaking her out of this cycle of misery and self-punishment. She takes his hand and allows him to lead her back home because it’s larger than hers and he faintly reminds her of Ichigo. Shinigami must not have contact with humans, and she has broken this rule countless times before. Perhaps, Byakuya has been right all along—breaking the rules is breaking one’s soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 300


	3. To Be a Woman

“Your new hairstyle suits you very much, Rukia.” Ukitake compliments and smiles one of his easy smiles. Rukia knows he doesn’t mean anything by it as he always has a friendly demeanor with everyone around him, but that doesn’t lessen the effect of his comment.

“Thank you, Ukitake-taichō. I felt it was time for a…change.” She lowers her eyes with a small bow of her head. Her voice is laced with hints of embarrassment and pleasure.

She raises a hand absent-mindedly—the pads of her fingers brush against the soft locks on the nape of her neck. Then she brings it to her lap once more. Foolish. Shinigami are not supposed to be males or females but soldiers. A mere compliment—spoken without real intent—should not elicit such a reaction in her…but _it_ _does_. No man has ever looked at her as a woman, her taichō least of all, but she thinks it would not be an unwelcome action. After all, were she not _woman_ , she would not have suffered such heartache at the loss of _man_. Ichigo. It is too soon to voice the name, but her mind has no qualms over torturing her with the sweetness of its echo.

“What did you wish to speak with me about?” Ukitake’s kind tone breaks through her faraway musings, bringing her back to the present.

Rukia refills her captain’s cup with tea in an attempt to gather her straying thoughts before she speaks again. The thickly aromatic fragrance of jasmine saturates the air she breathes, nearly choking her with its cloying scent.

“I would like to be considered for a seated position in the next evaluation.” The barest tinge of hesitation coils around her voice. Her lashes feel heavier when she lifts them to seek the warm chestnut of her captain’s gaze. Myriad sentiments gleam in her eyes—determination, longing, anguish. She hides them under a façade of cheerful expectancy.

“You are aware that I will have to notify Byakuya regarding this matter, yes? Being a seated officer will put you in many dangerous and unfavorable situations.” Ukitake shows no outward sign of consternation or recrimination, yet the slight tightening around his eyes tells her of his discomfort.

“Yes.” Rukia knows she is being selfish, asking her taichō to mediate in her favor, but she cannot face her brother on her own. She cannot face herself yet, much less Byakuya.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count 400


	4. Cold Nobility

This is the third time Jūshirō visits the Kuchiki estate, yet it seems as if nothing has changed since the last time. He cannot fathom how this place can stay untouched by time, but nobility has always been as such. Nothing ever changes here—not the buildings, not the people, not even the very air.

The first time he comes is when Rukia joins his squad. He is bedridden at the time; hence, he misses her initiation ceremony. But he can never purge from memory the first time he lays eyes upon their new recruit. Jūshirō wonders if the fever has caused him hallucinations…her resemblance with the ghost of the past is unmistakable. When he hears Kaien call her by name, he knows the terrible reality that surrounds the female shinigami.

 _“You are making a mistake, Byakuya. She is not Hisana… She will never be what you wish. Do not allow grief to overcome your better judgment.”_ Jūshirō attempts to reason with Byakuya over his decision to accept Rukia into the Kuchiki household. She is a young girl, unaccustomed to nobility’s rules; Jūshirō fears she will wither and die away under the burden of one who bears the Kuchiki name. He is _right_ and _wrong_.

The second time he visits is after Kaien has fallen at the hands of that same young girl. Jūshirō is certain Rukia will finally crumble under the weight of her loss. Kaien has been her _only_ pillar of strength. Byakuya has never been one for delicacy or comfort. Jūshirō has an ugly suspicion that allowing Rukia to remain in the Kuchiki mansion will slowly cause her to fade into nothingness. He decides then to send her to the living world, far from the icy clutches of the emptiness that awaits her home.

“ _She is as much a member of my squad as she is a Kuchiki. I have allowed you to meddle in the Thirteenth Squad’s affairs out of courtesy to your late grandfather, but no more, Byakuya._ ” Jūshirō holds his ground in the face of the apathy that is Kuchiki Byakuya. He can discern the other captain’s displeasure by the slight vibrations in his reiatsu, but Byakuya makes no verbal attempt to dispute him…as always.

Jūshirō is not young by years or wisdom, yet even he can never decipher the mystery that shrouds this taciturn man. He often wonders what has happened to the hot-tempered young boy he recalls, but it is not his place to question the way the Kuchiki household raises its clan heads. Rukia, though…he has grown quite fond of. Jūshirō will not allow them to extinguish the little spark of life Kaien has striven so hard to breathe into her if he can help it. Thus, he assumes the mantle of a taichō and buries any kindness for the boy he remembers.

“Rukia will be counted as a candidate for a seated position in the next evaluation.” Jūshirō’s tone is firm, unlike his usual gentle manner. His gaze mirrors the frost of Byakuya’s eyes. He does not speak a word more as he turns to leave, but a subtle motion halts his steps.

“Do as you please, Ukitake.” Though the words are uttered with the known dispassion of Byakuya’s voice, Jūshirō understands the request beneath the indifference. _Take care of Rukia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 550


	5. To Never Touch

“What’s with these weak attacks? Is that all you’ve got?” Renji banters with Rukia in an attempt to rouse a flicker of her competitive nature as he parries her strike with ease.

“You’re one to talk. I still can’t believe they let you become a fukutaichō with your _poor_ kidō skills.” Rukia’s lips curl in a playful smirk. She appreciates the distraction Renji provides. He has always been supportive and never makes things difficult for her. Rukia feels the need to reassure him that she is fine…even if she is not.

“Why you little… I’ll make you eat those words! Shakkahō!” Renji’s yell is drowned under the explosion. Rukia leaps back swiftly, avoiding the brunt of his unsuccessful kidō spell. Her mouth quirks with amusement as she peers at Renji’s charred appearance through the smoke.

“You fool… When will you ever learn?” She exhales a sigh, shakes her head.

“It won’t always be like this, you’ll see. You got lucky I’m tired from my patrol today.” Renji fabricates a weak excuse for his spell blowing up on him as usual, but he doesn’t care that he makes a fool of himself if it brings that smile on Rukia’s face. He will play the fool. Again. And again, and again…if only Rukia smiles.

Renji would do _anything_ for things to be as they were, but he knows it is a wish that can never be. He can _never_ turn back time. Renji has never been one to regret or worry over consequences, but he regrets _one_ thing—not stopping Rukia when he should have. That fated day when Kuchiki-taichō appeared in the academy to steal her away, Renji thought Rukia would be better off being a noble’s relative. _Wrong_. If he had known the agony Rukia would have to experience, he would have fought for her tooth and nail, until the last howl had died in his throat. But it is _too_ _late_.

He thinks back on those days and how lost Rukia had seemed, as if she would shatter if one touched even a single strand of her hair. Renji didn’t have the confidence to touch her for this fear, and so he had never done as such. Cowardice. Her fukutaichō had been the one to touch her when Renji couldn’t. Kaien had been the one to revive Rukia’s dwindling flame when Renji couldn’t. Once more, Renji had lost her to another man because he did not dare… _touch_ her.

Renji had swallowed his wounded pride once again then, recognized he had lost the privilege of being by Rukia’s side because he was too damn afraid. When Kaien was no longer by her side, he had been even more afraid to reach out because Rukia had seemed even more lost than before. Cowardice. Again. An orange-haired _kid_ had shown more courage, more bravery than him.

He, who has lived far longer than this kid, can never take that first step, can never reach out for fear of…what? Renji cannot even put a name to this baseless fear. In his mind, there is only _Rukia_ and _fear_ and _loss_. But neither Kaien nor Ichigo is here anymore. There is only Renji and Rukia and Byakuya…and fear.

_Am I destined to always yearn for, but never touch? To howl, but not claim?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 550


	6. A Thousand Silences

_I have to tell him… Ukitake-taichō must have told him already. I need to stop hiding._ Rukia knows she cannot delay this conversation for much longer, but she can never choose a correct moment to speak. Twice a day she crosses paths with Byakuya; twice her words die in her throat before she has a chance to give them voice.

Rukia struggles to muster the strength needed to speak her mind, make her wants known, yet she only ever breathes a subdued _ohayō gozaimasu, niisama_ and a whispered _oyasuminasai, niisama_. Good morning and good night…even though there is nothing _good_ about her mornings or her nights any longer. Rukia suspects the same of Byakuya’s mornings and nights.

Has her brother ever smiled, cried, laughed? No…at least never in her presence. Rukia reasons he must have at some distant time in the presence of another person. Hisana. Her elder sister must have witnessed his smile, seen his tears, heard his laughter. But Hisana is no longer here to witness or see or hear, and Byakuya has no reason to smile or cry or laugh.

Rukia shares nothing with Byakuya except for this pain—the pain of loss. They both have loved; they both have lost. She likes to believe this connects them in some deeper way than a mere surname, but it is a voiceless bond. Byakuya never feels the need to talk, though not for lack of words, and Rukia knows she needs to talk but cannot speak the words. Tonight, though…tonight she _will_ talk. Rukia will part her sealed lips to say not good morning or good night for the first time…because she cannot hide behind silence any longer and the time is right. Under the moon, into the night—the time is right.

_I will tell him…tonight._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 300


	7. After the Rain

An adumbral vastness stretches over the sky, swallows Rukia as she walks toward the secluded pavilion in the farthermost corner of the mansion with languorous steps. She is well aware that Byakuya seldom spends his nights elsewhere but there. What reason he might have for doing so is a mystery to her, but Rukia has found herself drawn to the solitary back of the silent man gazing at the moon in that place time and again. She assumes he always knows she hides in the shadows, but Byakuya never voices a word of admonishment or turns her away.

A glimmer of white amidst the blackness of the dusk catches Rukia’s attention, and she tears her gaze away from the moon. Byakuya is still clad in his captain’s attire, the ivory haori and black shihakushō creating a stark contrast with the pale carmine of the blossoms all around him. The wind carries the taste of petrichor and sakura and male. How very fitting, she thinks.

“I know you are there, Rukia.” The rich metal of Byakuya’s voice shatters the quiet of the night, elicits a slight flutter in her pulse. It is the first time he has acknowledged her presence, and it is the first time Rukia has dared to come out of the shadows.

“I wished to speak with you, niisama. I have decided to apply for a seated position.” Rukia understands her brother would not appreciate idle conversation, not in _this_ place. She can tell by the subtle tensing of his jaw as he tilts his neck to grace her with his profile. Thick lashes lift slowly, then lower over smokiness, but Rukia sees the jaded gleam in his eyes before they meet the smooth texture of his skin. How long has it been since he has truly slept, she wonders, but never asks.

“Ukitake informed me of this matter.” Byakuya’s manner is pure stoicism, his utterance low. Slow. Hollow. His neck bends in a graceful arc; his lids ascend. He fixes his gaze on the visceral snare of the moon, and Rukia instinctively knows she is being dismissed.    

“Niisama—” It is nothing but a murmur. Intrinsic. She inhales a deep breath then begins anew. “Oyasuminasai, niisama.” These are not the words Rukia wishes to speak, but they are the only ones that come forth. To her eyes, at that moment, under the umbrous glow, Byakuya looks devastatingly… _alone_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 400


	8. The Price of Elegance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hashi: Chopsticks

Rukia waits in tense silence for Byakuya to give permission for breakfast to commence. Breakfast in the Kuchiki household is almost a ritualistic procedure, Rukia and Byakuya being the sole participants. The servants prepare a variety of dishes based on their preferences, then leave them alone until otherwise summoned.

Byakuya reaches for his wooden chopsticks, and Rukia waits patiently until he has taken the first bite. The clan head must always eat first, then she is to follow. Even such a small matter as breakfast is bound by rules and stipulations in the Kuchiki estate.

Rukia observes with veiled curiosity and slight envy as Byakuya eats in an orderly fashion. Everything he does carry an air of elegance she couldn’t hope to achieve even after centuries of strict practice. She thinks it is a quality someone is born with, not tutored in.

“Is the food not to your liking today, Rukia?” His voice is low and passive, his eyes half-lidded and piercing.

She must have dozed off long enough in her peculiar musings…because she abruptly finds herself under Byakuya’s scrutiny. He watches her closely. _Intensely_. Rukia fidgets with her hashi, embarrassment and discomfort washing over her at having been caught staring at him.

“Forgive me, niisama. I was lost in deep thought and was distracted for a moment. The food is exquisite as always.” Rukia excuses herself with a small bow, no longer able to withstand the weight of his gaze. 

“Your examination occurs today, correct? Take care not to bring shame to the Kuchiki name.” It is more of a statement and less of a question. His voice is a low, tangible chill, numbing her skin. Rukia shivers at the touch of that gelid sound, then straightens her back before she speaks again.

“I will try my utmost best, niisama.” She makes the hushed vow, bites her lower lip on instinct. The copper taste of blood saturates her tongue, a harsh reminder of her weak nature. For once, she wishes to not be _Rukia_ but _Kuchiki_. If she were a Kuchiki in true meaning like Byakuya, then she wouldn’t worry over failure because her excellence would be guaranteed. But she knows it is wistful thinking on her part, a wish that can never be. Rukia can never reach the standards Byakuya requires, and Byakuya can never lower his expectations for Rukia’s sake…because both are _Kuchiki—_ and Kuchiki _do not_ _fail_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 400


	9. Celebrate the Pain

“Congratulations on becoming Fourth Seat, Rukia. You have splendid kidō control and your shikai is as powerful as it is beautiful.” Jūshirō’s compliment is overshadowed by his bright smile; his gaze brims with pride and appreciation.

“Y-you praise me too much, Ukitake-taichō! I’m unworthy of such—” Rukia argues with a slight stutter, cheeks flushed and skin burning, but an angry yell interrupts her before she has a chance to finish her sentence.

“What nonsense are you spewing, Kotsubaki? _I_ am the official Third Seat and you were the _former_ Fourth Seat, now that Rukia has been promoted. That makes you the _Fifth_ Seat now, you hairy gorilla!” Kiyone’s shrill voice echoes over the ruckus; irritation is bleeding in her gray gaze as she stares the male shinigami down.

“Bullshit, you snot nosed monkey! _You_ are the Fifth Seat now and _I_ am the Third Seat!” Sentarō’s holler is more deafening than Kiyone’s; veins are bulging notably on his forehead. The petite shinigami covers her ears in pain.

Then they turn to their captain for verification with equal doses of indignation and expectation.

“Right, taichō?”

“Calm down, Kiyone, Sentarō. You are Co-Third Seats; neither of you has been demoted. Let us have some cookies and tea and celebrate Rukia’s promotion.” Jūshirō tries to mediate the tense situation with a placating smile as if talking to aggravated children. Rukia stifles a laugh, her mortification all but forgotten thanks to their lively antics.

“A banquet… What a wonderful idea, taichō! I will make the preparations!” Kiyone’s excitement is palpable as she gazes at her captain starry-eyed.

“A…banquet? I meant a small gather—” Jūshirō makes a valiant effort to dissuade the dynamic duo from blowing this out of proportions, but the die has been cast.

“I will be the one to prepare the banquet, monkey-woman! You’ll mess up!” Sentarō’s loud voice booms throughout the Thirteenth Squad’s barracks as both sprint away in a race to perform this duty first.

“I am sorry, Ukitake-taichō. I should have stopped them before things escalated.” Rukia apologizes with a small bow, knowing her captain is in no position to be attending celebratory events.

“It’s not your fault, Rukia. Besides, a banquet is not such a bad idea, now that I think of it. My weak constitution hasn’t allowed for lively gatherings, but I feel the squad is in need of some merriment lately.” Jūshirō contemplates with a forlorn expression, recalling the losses they suffered during Aizen’s betrayal.

They have all taken damage, some emotional, some physical, most of them both. Yet they have survived the aftermath of the war because none is alone. Jūshirō wants to tell Rukia that it is alright to share her burdens with others—to cry and yell and shatter into a million pieces—because there are people close by willing to help her heal. He is afraid that if Rukia continues to keep her feelings sealed inside her soul, then she will never be able to mend the pieces back together. But Jūshirō knows that if he tells her that, she will think herself weak for not being able to overcome her darkness on her own, and so he refrains. He will wait for Rukia to come to him…even though he suspects she never will.

“Why don’t you invite Abarai-kun? You and he are close friends. I’m sure he would be happy to celebrate your achievements.” Jūshirō’s voice is soft, his gaze kind, though perhaps too much. Rukia may never reach out to him, but there are others. He can only hope that she will go to them before it is too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 600


	10. Sweet Apathy

Rukia observes the inebriated people all around her with mild amusement and exasperation. It was supposed to be a tame event, yet Kiyone and Sentarō managed to turn this into a drinking contest through their usual antics. Before she knows it, members of other squads have joined in the celebration, Kyōraku-taichō first of all.

Rukia’s brows knit with disapproval as she watches the Eighth Squad captain attempting to drag Ukitake-taichō into a drinking bet. She understands that these two have a bond far deeper than anyone can fathom, yet she still contemplates whether her captain is in a condition for such strenuous activities. But the hulk of someone’s shadow obstructs her vision and she loses her train of thought. 

“What’s with the long face, Rukia? Did you think we gathered here to see your brooding mug? Drink some sake and cheer up! You did well becoming a Fourth seat…not that you could become a lieutenant though. You still have a long way to go if you wanna catch up to me.” It is nothing but a jest in Renji’s usual manner.

He drapes an arm over Rukia’s shoulders casually. His words are slurred, his cheeks flushed, courtesy of high alcohol consumption. Renji knows he would not have been able to take such liberties otherwise, and so he chooses to drown himself in the potency of hot sake. He can always blame his actions to alcohol later, but for now he simply doesn’t give a damn.

“And make a fool of myself like you? No, thank you.” Rukia shakes her head even as her lips curve in semblance of a mischievous smile.

“You’re always so tense and serious. It would do you good to loosen up a little. Even your captain is living it up!” Renji tilts his head toward the direction of Kyōraku and Ukitake.

“You worry about _your_ Captain and let me worry about my own.” Rukia huffs as she extricates herself from his loose embrace.

“What are you saying? Kuchiki-taichō isn’t even he—” Renji never completes his argument; he stops midsentence, his gaze widening comically at the sight of Byakuya standing tall and silent a few feet away.

“You’re hopeless…” Rukia chuckles as she prepares a tray with a small sake jug and two cups. “I will attend to niisama instead of his _capable_ fukutaichō. You should call it a night.” Rukia pats his back, her nuance softening when she sees Renji’s crestfallen expression.

“Yeah, I think I’ve had a bit too much.” Renji barks a short laugh, the sound hollow, strained. He bids Rukia goodnight and turns to leave, stealing a last glance at her straight back as she approaches his captain.

 _Why are you here? Kuchiki Byakuya… Why are you always…_ He curses himself and his drunken haze; resignation and self-loathing settle in the pit of his stomach. Shoulders hung low, he disappears from the banquet as if he never attended at all.

“Konbanwa, niisama. Allow me to pour you a cup of sake.” Rukia inclines her head in a small bow and busies herself with the sake without raising her gaze. She knows her captain must have informed him of the celebration, but she hasn’t expected him to actually show up.

“You have achieved Fourth Seat status.” Byakuya’s voice is deep but merely that. It is devoid of emotion.

His tone does not carry the known frost whenever he addresses her, but she cannot decipher if he is pleased or disappointed with her achievement either. She offers him a full cup in a demure manner, daring to chance a glance up.

“Well done.” His voice never changes; his features are etched in statuesque elegance…except his _eyes_ —dark, sizzling coals of emotion. His eyes belie the indifference of his words. It is the gentler side of fire, she realizes.

 _Sweet apathy_ , Rukia thinks. Her lids lower as she brings the cup to her lips. Hot sake glides down her throat, seethes in a mass low in her stomach. Byakuya is gone when she raises her thick lashes, but she already knows that. The heat of Byakuya’s gaze still lingers heavy on her skin.

 _What awkward beings we are, niisama…_  Rukia exhales a soft sigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 700


	11. Bladed Words

“You wish to receive training?” There isn’t the merest hint of surprise in Byakuya’s voice. His gaze is depthless, traces of obsidian blue pooling. She likens them to abysmal waters, and _shivers_.

“If you would be so kind as to spare some of your time, I would be grateful, niisama. Onegai itashimasu.” Rukia all but breathes respect, short black locks fanning out on the tatami floor as she lowers herself to her knees in the appropriate posture. She feels thankful for the formalities as she cannot bear to gaze into those eyes for long…as always. Rukia can never fathom the reason behind her weakness against his eyes, but they are like deep waters, a prison of the blackest ocean. If she dares venture too deep, she might drown one day.

“Follow after me.” Byakuya’s eyes linger on the delicate curve of her neck, then he walks away. His steps are measured and soundless as he makes his way toward the training grounds. Rukia follows closely behind him.

He stops to slide open the patterned doors, then he walks to the right end of the large chamber. Rukia knows to take her place at a reasonable distance opposite of him without questions asked. Her gaze widens by a margin when Byakuya unsheathes his sword, catching her unaware of his intentions. She has reasoned they will spar with bokutō this first time, yet the gleaming edge of her brother’s blade beckons for her own. She inclines her head in a small bow as is customary, then draws her sword.

“Come at me.” Byakuya’s command fills the space when she has taken her stance. His voice echoes in the large chamber. Deep, foreboding. It magnifies the heaviness in her chest.

Rukia takes a shallow breath; she steadies herself, then lunges forward in a swift motion. She understands that Byakuya wishes to test her ability this first time, so she presses with all her might when their swords meet. Ambition, determination, frustration, pain—her blade glimmers white with all of her repressed feelings. It allows Byakuya to catch a glimpse of the tempest raging inside her. Rukia may never be able to speak with words her wants and worries, but Sode no Shirayuki will speak for her master’s will regardless.

“Again.” Byakuya grants her the merest nod of acknowledgment after he pushes her back with an elegant arc of his sword. He takes not one step forward or backward while he awaits Rukia to gather her strength.

“Hai.” She is near breathless, agitated. Rukia’s confidence grows and swells after his effortless parry. His voice is drenched in deceptive ice as he utters the command, but Rukia understands the favor he bestows upon her. He could have instructed her on how to correct her stance or how to refine her style, yet he asks for another confrontation. _Do you wish to hear my voice, niisama?_ Rukia guesses by his choice, head cocked to the side and eyes lustered with longing. Another forceful attack, another effortless parry. Again and again and again…until she is left panting and gasping, her sword hilt tinted crimson and slick in her clutch.

“Rukia.” Byakuya speaks her name, the sound slow, inviting. She raises her gaze to his level, overcome with desire to hear the sound _again_ for some inexplicable reason.

“ _Again_.” She pleads with him without being cogent of what as she charges forward. Her grip tightens, flesh seething around the hilt of her sword.

“Rukia.” She stills…at the rasp and heat in his voice. Close, so close she can almost taste him on her skin. His breath sweeps over the curve of her ear as he leans forward. “Tomorrow.”

She must have fallen into a spell because when the haze in her eyes dissipates, she finds her blade trapped in his hand, his own sword sheathed. She panics at the sight, knuckles white and curling around her zanpakutō lest she injure him unwittingly, but she needn’t have feared for such a thing. She watches with glazed eyes as he strokes the metal once before he releases it in her custody.

“Tomorrow.” His voice sinks into layers of skin, the solemn word a lick at the edge of her consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 700


	12. The Butterfly Dream

“You summoned for me, niisama?” Rukia kneels outside the parted shōji doors of his private study. Demure. Tense. The hushed nuance of her voice betrays traces of disquietude despite her best efforts to conceal them. Abused muscles are straining under the rigidness of her position and heavy lids lower on instinct.  She has visited his private lodgings upon countless occasions, yet never before has she felt such terrible eagerness to obey his summons. Rukia has grown so very accustomed to past feelings of restlessness and strange fear…that she cannot fathom this novel longing sensation coursing through her veins with each rapid pump of her heart.

“We will cancel any further training until your injuries heal.”

There is an immutable quality in his tone that slows the racy noise inside her chest, yet her ears detect elements of change. Unmistakable. Detachment limns each word with black frost. His voice is…cold, empty. It cuts her bone-deep. Rukia is aware that she might regret her later action, but she cannot curb the impulse to lift her lashes. The contours of his back are as she remembers them to be, defined lines of muscle and sinew. His shoulders are broad, his spine straight. Kuchiki Byakuya is the epitome of perfection, she muses, mind deluged with thoughts of inadequacy and attraction. Helpless, unquenched.

“I understand.” It is habitual compliance that moves her lips. She aligns her weight in an attempt to make her rise as innocuous as possible. Her teeth grit in discomfort and shame, but she takes care to drown all telling sounds inside her throat.

“I will take my leave if you will excuse me now, _Byakuya_ …” Rukia cannot tell what prompts her to still her tongue. It is an unconscious reaction, insidious, visceral. His name glides raw and naked on her tongue, ignites heat beneath her skin, burns with awareness. Rukia hurries to add the proper honorific because she can no longer withstand this newborn _fire_. “…niisama.”

It lasts no longer than a mere fragment of a second, yet it is too late to pretend it never happens. Rukia can never take back this scandalous lapse, and Byakuya can never dismiss the consuming memory of it.

“Rukia.” Black locks sway on the nape of his neck as he shifts in a slow, recalcitrant to his innately disciplined nature, motion. Her name is spoken with a touch of huskiness. Restrained. Pure throat sound, raw, dangerous. His rumble carries none of his previous indifference, an utterly becoming sound he has _never_ directed at her in the past. Rukia is tempted to repeat her unwitting breach in etiquette, force him beyond his strict bounds, press him until he breaks.

“Visit the healer upon your return.” His tone is insipid once more. Cold. Nothing but an order.

“Hai, niisama.”

Rukia is left with no choice but to incline her head in a modest manner then prepare to leave. She wonders if their exchange was a cruel chimera her mind has created to fill the hole Ichigo has carved in her heart, but then her gaze takes note of what lies in front of Byakuya’s kneeling form.

 _Hisana-neesama?_ Rukia has seen the picture of her late sister on a few select occasions before, yet their striking likeness never fails to astound her each and every time. What bewilders her more though, is the fact that she has dared to act in such a flagrant and unforgivable manner in _this_ very room. Hisana’s presence still saturates _everything_ here, including the man before her eyes. The narcotic fragrance of incense is heavy in the atmosphere. Rukia blinks once, loathing the wetness that wells beneath her lashes.   

_How can we be so much alike, yet different, neesama?_ A phantom knot coils and knits and constricts around the arc of her neck. Cluttered thoughts are assembling into a dreary puzzle of self-rancor.

_I have not changed at all, have I? Still the same pathetic girl, chasing after dreams that do not belong to me. Renji is the one who wears the fukutaichō’s insignia. My sister was the one who found happiness, no matter how fleeting, with the man she loved. I have nothing besides this bitter envy I wish would disappear!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 700


	13. The Lies We Tell

“What’s with those wounds, Rukia? Who did this? Do I need to beat someone?” Renji’s bellow oozes with anger and worry. His eyes are glued on her bandaged hands beneath the billowing sleeves of her shihakushō. Intense, almost feral.

“We are not in Rukongai, you fool.” Rukia shakes her head at the simplicity and brazenness of his nature. A smile strains the curve of her lips, lugubrious and lovesome. Lacelike melancholia shadows the luster of her eyes.

 _Kaien-dono would have had the same reaction on such occasions. Ichigo as well._ Reality can be a cruel mistress, but reminiscence is a far crueler realm to dwell, she thinks, and wonders how many times she will repeat this nocuous cycle of hypocrisy and self-deceit until she is satisfied. It is a changeless pattern. _In perpetuum_. Rukia has clung to the men in her life in order to smooth the jagged edges of her ruptured soul with each loss she has suffered so far. Kaien came first; then Ichigo; now Renji. Is it because they all share the same endearing traits, _simplicity_ and _brazenness_?

 _But Byakuya is different_. A treacherous little voice pervades this cluster of unwanted thoughts.

“You’re avoiding my question.” Renji’s tone is intimate and rough, breaks into her musings, demands for her placation.

“It is nothing for you to worry. Niisama has graciously agreed to supervise my training. I was merely…careless.” Rukia smiles the sweet smile he expects but merely that.

“You’re receiving private lessons from Kuchiki-taichō?” The tattoos on his forehead resemble a jigsaw of black ink as he assumes a deep frown at her admission.   

“Is it _that_ hard to believe?” Rukia teases, quite amused. Flecks of blue light glimmer in her eyes.

“No.” Renji rushes to reassure her, afraid he has hurt her with his thoughtless outburst, but then he catches the glint of taunt in her gaze and exhales with relief. “I just never thought he would offer, I guess. He rarely spars with me…and I’m his lieutenant!” His tone is…gruff, almost sulky as he says this.

“Is that _jealousy_ I hear?” Rukia cannot help but tease him again. Her gaze is coy and her accent drawls with mirth. It is naught but a harmless jest, yet perception distorts her words in the cruelest ways in Renji’s mind. She only meant to designate herself as the recipient of his envy, but that is not what Renji hears.

“Wha-at? Like hell I’m jealous of _him_!” Renji panics at the innocent question she poses, his mind not processing the answer he gives in his haste. The lie that spills from his lips reveals the truth he has gone to such painstaking lengths to hide all these decades, but it is too late to take it back once spoken.

“I meant—” Renji begins but stops, the red of his irises swallowed by the white of his sclera, internal muscles seizing in nervous spasms. Even as he attempts to salvage his failing pride, words elude him, reasonless _fear_ halting his tongue. Always the useless fear.

“Renji…” Rukia stares at him as she smiles, a thick flutter of lashes, a painful curving of lips.

She tilts her head back, black locks swaying lightly. The slender column of her neck rivets his eyes, but Renji still sees the conflicting emotions in the blue of her eyes. A familiar ache begins to throb in his chest, his lungs struggling to process the air he breathes. Rukia only ever smiles like this when she is about to ask a question he does not want to—or _cannot_ —answer.

“Am I a despicable woman?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 600


	14. Strokes of Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Happy New Year!

A fortnight has passed since Rukia last spoke with Byakuya. Ceaseless days and sleepless nights. _Too many_. Her only solace lies in sharing her self-inflicted silence with him after the light of day wanes. Even if all she does is stalk the stillness of his form amidst the fragrant scent of cherry blossoms and spring rain in moments only allowed by the moon’s grace. If not for the transience of these trysts, Rukia thinks she might have been driven to madness in the shackles of her own mind. Yet _still_ …she does not have the daring to inquire for the meaning of that place—and so she never asks.

Byakuya is the one who severs the tangled web of this silence, this madness in which they have been trapped, seemingly forever.

“Are your wounds healing well?” he asks as they take supper.

Rukia knows the assiduousness of his nature is what prompts him to ask, yet she cannot prevent the reflexive twitch of her knuckles at the sound of his voice. It is rich in smoky undertones, tastes like plum wine, and Rukia no longer cares if it is decadent to yearn for it as much as she does.

“Hai. They should be completely healed within the week, niisama.” Voice soft, head hung low; she cannot meet his eyes. The submissiveness of her reaction is not brought forth by conventions as usual, but dubiety. Rukia doubts her ability to cloak the desire ravishing her baser senses. Hence, she keeps her gaze lowered.

“Rukia.” His voice grows deeper, heavier, as he speaks her name, and she can tell by the deliberate tone he uses that he is aware, but nothing prepares her for the question he poses. “Do you wish for my company?”

“Niisama—?” A strangled whisper spills past the seam of her lips, the slim curve of her neck snapping into a painfully straight line. Shock seeps into the blue of her eyes; she regards him with discordance as right wars against wrong within her palpitating heart. Her mind takes belated charge then, and understanding comes at last. Byakuya merely wishes to know the reason for her continuous observation of him after night falls.

“I—I cannot sleep well. I apologize for constantly intruding upon your private space. I did not mean to…” She attempts to excuse the impropriety of her actions, contrition morphing her voice into near shivering gasps.

“It is of _no_ consequence.” Byakuya stops her guilt-ridden apology. His voice is hard steel but holds no cutting edge. “This manor—” His eyes gleam like heated metal as they delve into hers. “—is _our_ home.”

The message his avowal carries is clear, impossible to miss. Byakuya is telling her that she is free to venture wherever she pleases within these walls, even though she does not have a sliver of Kuchiki blood flowing into her veins.

 _Am I truly allowed to belong here…to be by your side?_ Rukia conveys her voiceless plea in their charged exchange. The fierce yet gentle acceptance of his stare evokes an unprecedented boldness in her, guides her sentences through her lips, grants her permission to speak the words Rukia has wished to say since the first time she stumbled across him in that beautiful, laden with untold ache pavilion.

“May I stand _beside_ you tonight?” Her voice is breathy and soft-silk. It inundates what little space there is between them, stretching and twining and coiling around him with empathic warmth.

“If that is your wish.” The barest nod and a flutter of dark lashes, the same reply as always yet _not_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 600


	15. The Garden of Eve

A shadow of silence. Byakuya is the silence in the dark, Rukia thinks, as she regards him under her lashes. _I want…to touch him…_ Her eyes burn with the wretchedness of her want…things she must never speak but cannot eschew. Once awakened, it remains cognizant, cannot be foresworn…the lure of this man. When he parts the veil of his silence, when he _does_ speak, it is far too late. The web has been spun, the silk has been woven. A Gordian knot. Ties that cannot be severed, deathless.

“You may speak if you please, Rukia.”

The irony of his consideration cloys her lungs, gorges on the susceptibility of her senses. If she dares reveal the merest scintilla of her despicable wants, she will have to taste the acrid fruit of rejection. Rukia cannot withstand losing him when she has barely found him. 

_No…no. I can’t, I won’t._

Byakuya spares her a glance when she chooses reticence over speech, and she feels even shorter under the shadow of his eyes. What he witnesses in the mirror of her gaze is inevitable. Rukia may have kept reign of her tongue, yet her eyes lay bare the intricacies of her wants.

“Hisana—”

The air she breathes abates. Respiration fails her, and she commands her body to take breath by force. There is no other reaction on her part, no motion, only the shiver of her lips. Rukia does not know if her sharp inhalation is the reason Byakuya halts his voice, but he takes pause for a moment.

“Hisana made this garden. She spent her days searching for you in Rukongai. Every time she returned after a fruitless search, she planted another flower here. She wished for this garden to be your gift when she found you, when she finally brought you home.”

His stare never strays, never leaves her reflection. The silver in his eyes deliquesces, asks for her pardon even before he gives it voice. Rukia cannot bear the heaviness of his remorse, does not wish to acknowledge it. In her mind, he has done nothing wrong, has committed no sin, unlike her. Byakuya has merely wished to secrete the memories of the woman he loved— _still_ does—keep them to himself for a little longer.

“I must apologize for keeping this from you, yet I—”

“You don’t have to say more, niisama. I understand, I do, so please—” Rukia stops him, dares to seize precedence of words, though she never finishes her sentence either. _Please, don’t show that kind of expression._

She already knows Byakuya will not heed her placation, almost curses him for it, yet what he says next melts her insides.

“Hisana was worried you might not like it. She was fond of moonflowers and cherry blossoms, yet she did not know if they would be to your liking. She... _we_ knew nothing of you.”

The newest addition of snowdrops—her favorite flower—in the garden tells what he does not.

I _know you now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 500


	16. Easy Smiles

Scents of jasmine tea and ink saturate the air in the Thirteenth Squad captain’s office, and silence. There is only the rustling of Rukia’s feather quill, and occasionally, the tapping of Ukitake’s stamp. Ever since her Fourth Seat appointment three months ago, Rukia has been filling in for the ever-vacant fukutaichō position. It is an implicit sign, presage of things to come, that Ukitake wishes her to reach second rank within his squad. Soon. The knowledge pleases her as much as it unnerves her. To hold the same position as Kaien, to stand in his place…Rukia has never thought that day will come, nor has she wanted to. Standing _by_ his side, yes. But that is a dream pierced by Nejibana’s trident and its owner’s pride. The men in her life have always been slaves to their pride, and Rukia can never take that away from them. As much as it pains her, as much as it kills her…

“Ukitake-taichō.” Her voice echoes in the quiet space, low-pitched, uncertain.

Ukitake’s head lifts slowly, a smile half-slanting his lips. Her captain always smiles, so easily, but perhaps it is not something to be envied. How does it feel to smile when no one else does? _Because_ no one else does. Rukia doesn’t think she has the strength to do that. It humbles her to be under someone who can.

She licks her lips then tries to smile. It is more grimace than smile when her mouth finally yields. Still, she smiles. “May I ask a question of a personal nature?”

“Personal?”

Ukitake arches a brow, and she hurries to clarify, wincing and slightly flustered.

“I am not referring to _your_ personal life—”

His laughter swallows her useless jitters, warm sound, tangible. She stays silent for one moment, basking in its warmth.

“It’s perfectly fine, Rukia. What do you wish to know?”

There aren’t many ways to ask what she wants, none that will not birth questions, but she takes the risk. Ukitake will not press her beyond what she feels comfortable sharing—he never has.

“Byakuya-niisama…” The name snakes down her tongue, rolls off breathy and licked by want. If Ukitake notices, it doesn’t show, but Rukia knows he does. She clears her throat, and finally asks. “Has he always been as such?”

A scintilla lights his eyes—fulgent chestnut, two slices of kindness, and in between them, pity melting like hot syrup. Ukitake’s gaze whispers that he _knows_ …too much. Just as well. Rukia has spoken while taking that into account.

“I assume you are asking if he has always been as reclusive and beyond approach?”

Her chin dips once. “I have been living in the Kuchiki estate for decades, and he has never acted any differently, but I have heard talks among the house personnel, sometimes…” She veers off with a frown, gazing at him, _pleading_.

A sigh spills forth, and he shakes his head…smiling. Always smiling. “I suppose there is no reason not to tell you. Where should I start?” Small pause. Quiet hum. “Byakuya was a lively child, competitive and outspoken. Had quite a bit of a temper as well.” Soft chuckle. “As the years passed, he matured into a milder version of his current self, as was expected of him as the next head of the Kuchiki clan. He became more dutiful and reserved, though some measure of his arrogance remained.”

His stare bores into hers then, his smile almost an apology now. “I was vaguely acquainted with your late sister. His marriage served to soften Byakuya’s cold exterior and reduce his callousness to tolerable levels. You can tell that is no longer the case.”

Teeth sink into her lip, and she lowers her eyes. _Hisana-neesama…it’s always you._ Rukia shouldn’t be surprised to hear this, but it never ceases to surprise her. The sister Rukia has only known through that picture in Byakuya’s study and the sparse words of others is a glaring presence in her absence. Constant. What does it say for Rukia to be more envious than pining the loss of that sister? That she is more _woman_ than _sister_. It…sickens her.

“What made you wish to know, Rukia? You have never expressed any interest before.”

Ukitake’s voice draws her back, away from these thoughts. It is subtle, the way he coaxes her, but she can see his question for what it is. A chance. An opportunity. To talk openly, to grasp a friendly hand. For a split second, she is tempted.

“It’s not that I have never been curious…”

Her minute lapse, how the words falter on her lips, the vulnerability that slips through the cracks in her high shield—all is masterfully exploited.

“Were you afraid to ask then? Or perhaps…” Ukitake’s voice, too, falters when she stiffens, dies with a sigh. A smile, again. “No matter. I guess it’s good that you feel at ease to make such inquiries. You can always confide in me if something is troubling you, Rukia.”

Her neck tilts in a bow. Rukia returns his smile with one of her own, less easy, less graceful. “Thank you, Ukitake-taichō.”

Another smile, and silence. Rukia feels the need to break it, fill the room with something other than Ukitake’s smile-frozen sympathy, but as soon as she does, she regrets it. “Has Ichigo been well?”

The way Ukitake’s smile tightens, thin lines ridging the skin around his mouth, is telling. The words he speaks even more so. “Ichigo-kun is…more than well.”

 _Oh_. Rukia fathoms what he _means_ to say, what he _doesn’t_ say. _Ichigo has…moved on._ The realization brushes her mind in one brief caress, and when there is nothing but a twinge of pain, burrows lower, sinks in deep. Inevitable. Humans fall in and out of love so quickly, seamlessly. She should be happy that he is now acting as humans should, as he never did when she was by his side. All Rukia has ever done for Ichigo is make him less human, less free to be what he is. 

“I see.” Her throat feels dry, her tongue swollen. She _should be happy_. Maybe she will be…she _needs_ to be. “Thank you, Ukitake-taichō. Please watch over Ichigo.” _Watch over him, make sure he is happy,_ human _, always._ In the end, it doesn’t matter if she is happy, only that he is.

Ukitake reaches out a hand, places it over hers. His skin is rough with sword-trained calluses, like hers, but that is where the similarities end. His hand is larger, heavier. “Take care of yourself, Rukia, and don’t worry about Ichigo-kun. He’s doing fine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1100


	17. Say My Name

Rukia stands outside the calligraphy room, spine stiff and taut like a bowstring. The doors are slid open, and inside, Byakuya kneels on the tatami floor, kimono sleeves tied back and brush held between his fingers. Graceful, languorous motions. Her eyes follow the twists of his wrist, trace the angles of his body. Slowly, instinctively, they rise high, and higher, up the length of his forearms and over the lines of his collarbone, stroke every inch of rarely exposed skin… _perfect_ skin.

 _He_ is perfection _._

Air inflates her lungs, spills out of her throat, something needy and shivery—a gasp. Her pulse is a wild beat against her ribs. Need seethes in swollen veins, sultry blood and _fire_. She is a knot of insecurity and raw nerves, feet rooted to the polished wood yet ready to flee. Why has she come here? What does she expect will happen if she stalks him day and night? Byakuya is a patient man…but even his patience must have its limits. If she keeps imposing on his private moments like this, it won’t be long before her brazenness gnaws on its last thread.

Rukia takes in a deep breath, wills her body to _move_ , though even she isn’t sure to where…away, or closer. Teeth bite into the flesh of her lip until it almost bleeds—Byakuya _is_ staring at her, delving into her eyes. She stills. There is awareness writhing in the silence, something visceral struggling to break free—in the edge of his reiatsu, the flex of his muscles. Rukia holds his gaze, mesmerized. It is…hypnotic—how gray hardens into granite, pulls her in deep and…invites her inside the room.

“I am coming in, niisama.” She hears herself speak…but neither the voice nor the words belong to _her_. It is _too_ …husky, too daring, full of shameless notes, _wanting_. She should have _asked_ for permission to enter, not state that she will. His eyes are to blame, those dark coals. If he doesn’t stop staring at her, she will melt into a pool of breathless gasps and shivers. Rukia shouldn’t have come—she will only make a fool of herself.

Byakuya says nothing, merely observes her closely. He is waiting, she realizes, for her to make true on her statement. Rukia swallows thickly, and one step at a time, she walks into the room. Her legs have gone shaky by the time she sinks onto her knees across from him, maybe even farther away than what is socially proper, just to be safe. Hands overlay one another on her lap, skin strung tight and muscles burning in her thighs. Byakuya spares her one last glance, then resumes his calligraphy session.

Minutes, maybe even hours, pass. Rukia is…speechless. What is she supposed to say? There is no reason for her presence, no status report, no clan council, merely the impulse to _be near him_. Her tongue sweeps across her upper lip, and she sways, pressing her weight on her heels. _This is a mistake…I should—leave._ Perhaps it is best that she leave, yes…she _must_.

Her voice slashes through the glutinous membrane that coats her vocal cords. “I apologize for disrupting your shodō—”

“Rukia.” The way he speaks her name, layered with smokiness and masculine hints, halts her retreat. “You wish to speak with me. Do so freely.”

Byakuya _always_ does that, always speaks her name. Rukia has reasoned in the past that he does so out of some kind of compulsive necessity, so that he will never forget who she is. If she stays silent and unmoving, it’s easy to pretend she is not Rukia but an unrefined copy of his wife, and she would not blame him either. But he has _never_ done as such. _No…not once._ Always speaking _her_ name, with such deepness that it becomes sinful. 

A shudder rushes through her body, and when she parts her lips, traces of it ride on her nuance. “I spoke with Ukitake-taichō today, and I was wondering, if you…if you might tell me more about my sister.”

Byakuya studies her intently, carefully. When his neck slants in the barest angle, in what she perceives as a nod, Rukia continues. “What was she like?” _What did_ you _like about her?_

His expression is inscrutable, half-lidded silence and strict poise. If he has heard the question hiding in her question, nothing reveals it. A rise and fall of his Adam’s apple, and he is speaking. “Hisana was…gentle. She regretted even cutting flowers if they were to be used as mere decorations. More than anyone I know, she valued life.” Soft-framed—eyes, lips, accent. “You resemble her in that aspect.”

Rukia shifts with embarrassment at the touch of that softness. “I—I am not as gentle.” _If you knew my thoughts…you wouldn’t call me that. If you knew—_

“No?” Byakuya sounds almost… _amused_. “I know a certain ryōka boy who would beg to differ. You chose to save his life even if it meant forfeiting yours.”

 _Ichigo_. Twice today she has thought of him, twice she has spoken his name, when she has not done so for a long time. Her mouth fills with words but her eyes are empty. “I heard that Ichigo is…happy.”

Why she even shares this with Byakuya is a mystery, unprecedented. But perhaps it stems from the fact that he has confided in her about Hisana. It is only fair that she, too, gives something away. And somehow, saying this aloud makes it more… _real_.

“You want to see him?”

A crick racks her neck with the force she raises her head, and Rukia gasps. His impassive veneer is etched in place but there is _something_ in his eyes, in the way they trace the curve of her lips as she vies for breath. Her mouth locks tight—then she is shaking her head, more mumbling than speaking past bruised lips. “No. No, I think I’ve seen him enough…too much.”

His gaze lingers on her lips, and his _voice_ —

“What do you want, Rukia?”

Decadence distilled into sound. She can’t breathe again.

“I—”

“Rukia.”

 _That_ voice, _those_ eyes—they rouse tingles and shivers, unspeakable sensations, searing her skin. A flush of heat. Dark color slathers across her cheeks, spreads down her neck and over the swells of her breasts.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” A biting of lips. Voice raptured raw. Haze languishes her mind, and she can only speak the truth. “It’s not that. I’m not afraid of you…but what you’ll think of _me_.”

Rukia is rising and fleeing before she can even contemplate what she just said. “Excuse me, niisama.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1100


	18. Ouroboros

Rukia doesn’t see Byakuya for another month after _that_ day. She isolates herself in the Thirteenth squad’s barracks, immersed in paperwork and other mundane duties, mind kept carefully blank, selfishly detached. _Hiding_. Ukitake allows it with nary a frown, though she knows he doesn’t approve.

 Each morning they take their breakfast together, and each morning he asks if they will do so again the next day. Always polite, always smiling. Her captain never tells her to _go home_ —he is too subtle to phrase it as an order, and too loath to make it an order—but the expectation is there nonetheless. For all his surface lenience, Ukitake expects to be obeyed. Rukia pretends it isn’t an order—she is good at pretending things aren’t what they seem to be, or at least she used to be until _that_ day—but even her mastery of pretense fails before her captain’s patience. It is a battle of attrition…and she is losing.

What purpose Ukitake may have for doing this to her is a mystery. And Rukia knows that he knows _exactly_ what he is doing to her. She has never thought he can be so…unapologetically cruel. Perhaps that is merely nothing but an image. People lie and perceptions are cultivated and motives have many meanings. Even her kind and unassuming taichō. Much as he projects otherwise, Ukitake has always been diplomatic, cunning, fastidious in his machinations. He never acts until he absolutely has to, until all other means have been exhausted, and no one sees him coming. That is the beauty of his nature. He doesn’t involve himself where he shouldn’t be involved—unless he is emotionally invested—but he _is_ prepared for all eventualities.

Rukia feels bitter about his meddling, and strangely…pleased. Because above everything else, he cares for her—he cares enough to be hated for it.

On the last day of the month, she loses the battle. Rukia smiles and bows and bids him good night. Her smile is self-deprecating, her spirit bent lower than her waist, and they both know she will not be there in the morning. She pretends she doesn’t see the rueful curl of satisfaction on his mouth.

* * *

It is quiet, dark, still night, when she comes home. _Home_. Byakuya has told her that she is Kuchiki, that here is where she belongs. Rukia believes him. Lies are beneath him. Denial is beneath him. It is she who skulks in the night with misplaced steps. Half-dreading, half-craving. Like some bastard child. But isn’t that what she _is?_ She is too young and too foolish and wants things so far above her that it’s painful to even own the want. Much less speak of it. But she did, didn’t she? In one mindless moment, full of shame and need and loss of control. It is petty to think Byakuya bears the blame for that moment. Tongues are made for words and wants and decadent truths. Why should hers be any different?

 _Yes…why should mine—?_ She doesn’t finish that question. She can’t. It turns into urge much too soon, tongue and teeth, wet sensation on her lips.

Despicable. _Why am I so—?_ She doesn’t finish this question either. Her treacherous feet have brought her to the only place she doesn’t belong. Rukia stops outside Byakuya’s private study. Candlelight pours under the shōji screen, flickering back and forth, warm over her bare toes. It feels like an invitation. She waits with her lips still wet and that insidious want seeped in the flesh of her tongue. It _burns_.

“Rukia.” His voice is hauntingly familiar, a low, raspy purr, and her name is a sin on his tongue.

 _Have you been…waiting for me, niisama?_ It is the first question her mind fully forms, and she grasps from the way he speaks her name that he has.

Rukia parts the shōji screen with trembling fingers. Slowly, delicately. What greets her eyes is something she has never seen before. Something she has never imagined she would see. Her eyes fall on him…and all she sees is shadows of things that were long ago and things that came before her. Things that aren’t hers and never will be. Smoke in his eyes and sake in his hand and something raw, bleeding in the space and silence between them. It _hurts_.          

“Come. Drink with me.”

It feels more like vindication now. If he blames himself, then she has no right to take that away from him. Not after he has lost so many things already. Rukia comes inside only because she doesn’t want those things, the ghosts that lived before her.

She lowers herself to the tatami and tucks her feet underneath her, supports her weight on one hand and casually leans to the side. Her head tilts, rests on her shoulder, her eyes riveted by the languorous sprawl of his body. Byakuya has always been rigid and untouchable, polished edge and perfection. This lazy arrangement of limbs, this disarray of clothes, this careless display of skin and emotion—they are jarringly foreign to witness. Rukia thinks she may have broken him, or maybe he has always been broken behind that shōji screen, waiting for her to slide it open, waiting to share this brokenness with her. What a damned coward she has been.  

A small cup of sake is pushed into her hands, the ceramic hot and smooth against her palms. She eyes the sake jug and finds it nearly empty. How many sake jugs, how many nights has he drunk while he’s been waiting for her? She sips her sake and wonders if it tastes the same for him, like wet fire and _regret_. It probably does.

Her eyes bore into his, delve deep into the smoke that obscures the past. It doesn’t surprise her that he wants to speak of such things when he does. She knows it has been long coming, that he has only refrained for her sake. Because she has been a coward and she hasn’t been ready to listen until now. Byakuya respects her more than he should. She wishes that he wouldn’t. Even if it is depraved and twisted and _wrong_.

“When Hisana passed away, I searched for you. I searched, desperate.” He sounds hollow…even when his voice is so full of pain and misery and self-loathing that she can hear the cracks, the rough echoes as it spills in her ears.

“It was easy, finding you. So easy.” Rukia knows this truth—the servants speak freely when they think no one is listening. But what he implies is _hard_ to swallow. “And so hard.”

 _You never wanted to find me… You only did for_ her _._ It is hard to breathe. Hard to accept. 

“If I had done that from the start, you could have met her.” His stare is an obsidian dagger. It cuts soul-deep. “If I had not waited until it was too late, you would not have suffered so much.”

Regret, she realizes, is an ouroboros. Even if she forgives him, he will never forgive himself. He can’t. Rukia hates herself. She hates that he suffers because of her. She hates the pleasure she takes from his suffering. But she does— _oh she does_. Because it is _hers_ and it is _his_ and it is _theirs_. She is inside him and she needs him to be inside her. Two broken pieces that will never make a whole. They are too jagged, too uneven. They shouldn’t try to fit together like they do. But it is addictive, and all they have.  

Rain starts to fall outside, slick and quiet and agonizingly reminiscent of _why_ she is broken. Of all the things she can’t forgive herself for. _It rained that day, too. Kaien…the world raged for you and the skies wept and the earth bled and I—I thought I loved you…but what did I know of love then?_ Rukia licks her lips, smiles softly.

“I—didn’t suffer.” It doesn’t matter if he believes her or not. It is not about forgiveness anymore. “It’s true that every day was a struggle. There was never enough food for all of us and most days we slept on the dirt and I hated the rain.” _I will always hate the rain._ “But that’s not something you need to apologize for.” _If you do…I’ll have nothing_. “I don’t regret the life I lived or the choices I made before you took me in.”

He stares at her as if he can see that girl in her, all the shame and bitter-hot tears, pain and blood stuck under her fingernails—and maybe he can.

“I haven’t changed.” She laughs bitterly. “I still hate the rain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 1450


	19. Ruinous, Forbidden Thing

The rain drips, drips, dripping. Rukia gives her cup a slow twist, but doesn’t drink. Byakuya has drunk enough for both of them, and it is still not enough. Can never be enough…not for this.

“I thought I loved him…and I did, I think, in my own way.” She brings the cup to her mouth and slowly tips it back, tastes fire and dead desire and the shame of wanting something forbidden. Memory burns hotter than the sake as it slides down her throat to churn in a mass low in her belly. _Kaien…you made me—_

Would she have still wanted him if it wasn’t forbidden? Is that why she wants Byakuya? Can she want no man except the one she can’t have? Can she be nothing but—

“But not—not in the way it should be.” A smile hangs at the edges of her lips, bitter as her acknowledgement, red as the truth she’s never dared to speak. Not to herself, not until now. “He was kind, you know? No one had been kind to me before.”

Her gaze drifts shut…there are eyes like the stormy seas and tufts of burning sun behind her eyelids. She loves the kindness of Shiba men even as she curses them for it. “They both were.” A flash of red thunder in the eyeless black. “And Renji…he loves me. He loved me before, and he still does. I’ve always known, but I don’t—I can’t be what he wants.” She opens her eyes, a wet flutter of lashes, a raw, cruel admission. “It never ends well.”

“No.”

It startles her, his voice, the immutable reality of it. And suddenly…she’s so angry, violently frustrated…with him, with the promise in his voice. She’s had enough of wanting what she can’t have and why can’t he—

“But you don’t care.” Rukia glares at him, hates his eyes, that she can never escape them, that smoky, dizzying need, the things he makes her—

The cup slips through her fingers and shatters with a deafening crack and she feels hands on her hips, gripping, pulling, lifting. He is so much larger than her that even as she is dragged onto his lap, as her legs spread over his thighs and her hands fist the lapels of his yukata, she still can’t reach him. A strangled gasp, too small to fight, too weak to deny, and she buries her face in his neck.  

“You never—you _shouldn’t_ —” Skin hot against her lips, wet like the rain, his pulse a pitter-patter at the hollow of his throat. “ _Why_ do you—” Out of breath and chest heaving and glutted with want-anger-hate-despair. “I _will_ _ruin_ _you_.”

She doesn’t care how vulnerable she sounds in this moment, that she is crying, trembling, _begging_. As long as he _listens_ , stops this madness, this ruinous, forbidden thing.

Two fingers below her chin, tilting her head up as he leans down, his voice an inevitability slathered on the curve of her mouth.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word Count: 500


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